


The Great Serpent's Bride

by BARALAIKA



Category: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice
Genre: Amputation, F/M, Guro, Human Sacrifice, Humiliation, M/M, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Ritual Sex, Ryona, Vore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2019-12-18 03:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18241649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BARALAIKA/pseuds/BARALAIKA
Summary: "According to denizens of the Sunken Valley, ravines and deep valleys are appropriate for offering oneself in marriage to the Great Serpent. If one wishes to become a bride, they must enter the belly of the Serpent in the valley."While the Wolf may not wish for it, he is to become one of those offered.





	1. Caught and Stripped

**Author's Note:**

> Is this the first Sekiro fanfic? Seriously? Well. Strap yourselves in, friends, because there's gonna be vore eventually!

The temple was unlike anything that the Wolf had seen before. He’d heard the tales of the beast that prowled the jagged teeth of the valleys, a white snake revered as a god by those who inhabited the perilous lands— the creatures were believed to be lucky by many in Ashina, beautiful and rare and strange… but this one was not the harmless rat-eater that many would have imagined.  
  
The Great Serpent’s most devoted followers kept a temple carved into the very face of the Sunken Valley itself, where the beast could pass and be worshipped and receive offerings. As such, the main chamber was cavernous, heavy with incense to cover the scent of human bodies and cold with the wind that licked the steep paths and rocky outcroppings. When he came across it, the Wolf was fascinated. He slunk into its halls to see what he could find, as the tales of its cult spoke of snakes and dragons as one, along with their more _unique_ traditions.  
  
One was the marriages of the sect’s women to the Great Serpent itself.  
  
Why it was that they believed that the belly of the beast was the answer to the purpose of their life was far beyond what the Wolf could ever hope to understand. A fascination with their god and its consumptive habits taken to an extreme, he reasoned. Perhaps it was social masochism. Or perhaps they were simply unwell.  
  
Crouched low and pressed into the crags and crannies of the hewn rock face, the Wolf hid from the priests and their initiates as they shuffled around the winding corridors— they spoke in low mutterings, which even the sharp ears of a shinobi struggled to pick up on.  
  
 _“How many maidens are in preparation for the ceremony?”_

_“Fifty, brother. Forty of which are the purest of devotees. It is a shame that the rest are…”_

_“Mm. All the same, they must be prepared. If our offering is too scant, then we may cease to be.”_

_“Yes, brother.”  
  
_ _The ceremony… is soon?_ The Wolf thought to himself, as he pressed against the wall and held his breath a moment. He had to admit, he was curious to see this folk tradition, even if the idea of a mass scale human sacrifice was concerning. Fifty women? Surely, it was a waste of strong bodies to tend the villages, to farm the harsh lands and have families of their own… or perhaps it was a morbid escape from that life.  
  
But the last ten… what were they?  
  
Just as the Wolf’s thoughts began to wander, he jolted!  
  
 _What the…?_  
  
A dart jutted out of the side of his neck and he grabbed it out of shock and instinct, then tore it out. Poison tore through his bloodstream and the bang of his heart coursed it through his body until he was awash with a sedative that weighed his body down… and a black-garbed figure seeped out of the shadows away from him, white wraps around their face. The Great Serpent had shinobi of its own, it seemed.  
  
Yet the Wolf did not sleep, as was probably expected of him. The seconds ticked by like hours in themselves and as a gaggle of priests and initiates arrived, the Wolf’s mind was wading through molasses as they grabbed him and brought him deeper into their lair.

 

_“Father! We found a trespasser!”_

_“And so close to the ceremony…”_

_“Does somebody wish to stop it?”_

_“No, it can’t be!”_

 

Voices clamoured over each other and snapped the Wolf from his addled reverie as he stirred in their hands.

 

_“He’s coming to! How is that possible?”_

_“They drink poisons, to be able to resist them. Shinobi are not to be trifled with.”_

_“At least one of them is on our side…”_

 

An elderly man approached the Wolf, a hunch to his back as if he struggled to walk under his own weight. His robes were embroidered with thousands of snakes, twisting about each other in the flickering touch light and wheeling until the shinobi’s vision straightened. He pulled his arms and the men lurched.

 

_“H-He’s strong! We need more!”_

_“Put him on the ground, you fools! Stop him from moving so we can prepare him.”_

_“I-I beg your pardon, father?”_

 

The old man nodded, deathly serious.

 

_“For the ceremony. We shall offer this shinobi to the Great Serpent.”_

_“Does he deserve to marry our god?”_

_“If he is, then he shall be… its_ **_wife_ ** _.”_

 

 

Presenting a filthy man to the glorious grace of the Great Serpent simply would not do. As much as they despised him, as much as this was a punishment, the Wolf would need to be clean before he was thrown to its jaws— perhaps that was the greatest shame of all. He was reticent to give up a shred of cloth and by the time he regained control of his body, required chains around his wrists and up his tight, sinewy arms to keep him restrained while another four temple hands held down his thrashing legs.

 

_“This is the strength of the shinobi?”_

_“Don’t breathe too close—”_

_“Is that..?”_

_“Yes. Dragonrot.”_

 

The old priest took the Wolf’s head in his hands and turned it towards him, showing the other men the right-hand side of their captive’s head. Grey stained his jet-black, greasy hair in listless strands and white flecks of skin mottled his forehead, around his eye and down his cheek. Several of the men leant back, but the priest scoffed.

 

_“He is no threat like this. Now. Make sure he cannot escape.”_

 

Wolf’s sharp, black eye flicked back and forth between the priest and the men as best as he could manage; their expressions of disgust and concern for themselves was laughable, with white sleeves draped over faces as if they could catch plague from him as-is… but when a ceremonial blade emerged from the high priest’s myriad layers of robes, he realised what was to happen.  
  
 _“Grngh—!”_ Grunted the Wolf as he squirmed beneath solid grips to no avail. The blade glinted in low lamplight as the high priest passed it to someone younger, stronger, and he took up his place at their intruder’s feet; it cut through the twine of his sandals with such ease, as if it were no more than stray threads from his ratty, travel-beaten robe. His toes curled around the tough bases of his footpads as he flexed back and forth, tried to break their hold on him while they set about of stripping him. Hempen strings snapped open as the youth cracked open his soft carapace of set leather, light armour and thick cloth to expose the flesh beneath. The Wolf’s hard, muscular legs had seen better days, for sure. Scars littered his flesh, breaking lines through dark hair and discoloured porcelain-pale skin, the colour so carefully preserved all of these years. In stark contrast, his feet were filthy enough to make the men tasked with holding them down cringe. Calloused, scuffed, coated in the dirt that soaked through his tabi, it was little surprise to them and yet for those more accustomed to maidens desperate to prove their worth through cleanliness… it was not pleasant.  
  
After all, the Wolf was not supposed to be pleasant in the first place. He was a man of purpose, of function over form; a sword is lovely for a myriad of reasons, but no more than decorative steel without a keen edge  
  
With his feet bared, the blade travelled up the backs of the Wolf’s legs and rendered his blood-soiled hakama little more than useless flaps of cloth that were torn away from under him before he had the opportunity to protest. Then came his beloved overcoat. Cut up the back, the young initiate took no care at all with the battered cloth, rendering it asunder as if rags— which he supposed they were, really. None of these things were important, not really, but the Wolf found himself saddened all the same, mourning the garb and colours that distinguished himself as his father’s son.  
  
What would his father think of him now?  
  
All the Wolf could do was wince away from the cold, dusty temple’s air on his grimy, sweaty skin as the heady, masculine scent of his unwashed body poured from him in a miasma and elicited further concern from his captors. He was filthy, to put it simply. He did not remember the last time that he had been scrubbed, but dropping into the waters of a river were all that he recalled doing for what seemed like eons past.

 

_“Disgusting…”_

_“What do you expect of shinobi? A body as sullied as his soul.”_

 

He looked away from them as they tore open his plates and wrappings, until they came to rest on his prosthetic arm.

 

_“What manner of depraved device is this?”_

_“A shinobi weapon… no, the Great Serpent shall not consume a heathen’s tool. Dispose of it.”_

 

They were not kind.  
  
Bindings about the Wolf’s stump came away with the blade but when it became evident that it had been worked into his bone, the priests had to use some imagination. The young, strong initiate stamped down on the good span of Wolf’s arm, took hold of the turnbuckle and _pulled_ with all of his might. Over and over, Wolf yanked to and fro until a sickening _pop_ echoed around them— his shoulder came out of place— and myriad sets of eyes peered down at his stony face for any show of pain, any crack in his composure…  
  
But it never came.  
  
Wolf sweated, his skin glistening with a greasy sheen as tissue tore and screamed beneath its harsh treatment and the longer it went on, the harder his teeth gritted and groaned beneath the pressure of his jaw. He had endured far more in his training, but this was a pain he had never known— intense and cloying, deep in his very structure until he could barely think.  
  
It was not until a viciously serrated hand saw came to the initiate’s hand that he got anywhere with separating shinobi and tool. He bit into the minuscule gap between puckered, scarred flesh and bone prosthetic and began to gouge away at the growth of new skin, of healing muscle and bone until the initiate came to realise how much _deeper_ he needed to go. Angling towards the Wolf’s shoulder, he sheared away a great hunk of meat before gaining purchase on his bone.  
  
Rather than the smooth, stunning slice that severed his limb before, this was excruciating. The initiate needed to use all of his weight to haul the blade back and forth through the bizarre workings of the prosthetic and bone where they fused and the Wolf willed the tears back into the corners of his eyes.  
  
 _CRUNCH._  
  
With a few cruel twists back and forth, the Wolf’s bone broke. Away came his arm in a vulgar spray of claret, a harsh echo of shame long passed.

 

_“He will not die. Wrap the wound, take him to the baths. We shall cleanse him there.”_

 

Worried glimpses bounced between the temple hands as they watched the shinobi wheeze on the solid, smooth stones of their grand cliff side temple until the Initiate wrapped the prosthetic arm in a swathe of grubby robe cloth taken from the Wolf, then scurried away. Another initiate approached on silent feet with white bandages and undertook the bloody task of stemming the bleeding with thick ointment that finally made the Wolf cry with pain as some manner of herb stung deep into the raw, open wound and made the limp remains of his arm shudder violently and breath seethe through clenched teeth. They rubbed it in with a cloth, then began to bandage tight and hard, until the bleeding was stemmed and seeped into the pristine cloth instead.  
  
The Wolf could not bring himself to look up as people shuffled around him, the fight draining from him as pain took over… until the kiss of cold steel against the back of his ankle flared panic through his consciousness. A wordless scream of rage passed his lips as strong hands gripped his feet and legs ever tighter to hold him still before the knife moved— the same serrated, vicious thing that chewed through his arm— and sunk into tendon and bone.  
  
In one purposeful, toothed stroke, the Wolf’s foot became useless. The apothecary initiate brandished another blade and cut again until a wedge of gore was removed and they were able to stuff bandage and caustic cream in its place, hobbling the shinobi to uselessness. Meanwhile, the serrated initiate moved to his other side and repeated the process, carving Wolf apart into a one-armed invalid at the mercy of those around him.  
  
At some point, he recalled hands letting go of him and being unable to move, then the hunk of his ankle being removed… and nothing else.

 

The world fell black as merciful blackness enveloped the Wolf’s mind and body and he let go, sinking into the blissful peace of unconsciousness.


	2. Cleansing

The room was dark and humid, enough so for the Wolf’s eyes to glow dimly in the gloom.

Low candle light barely managed to illuminate a grotto of a chamber heavy with steam, but the Wolf was only aware of cold, wet stone beneath him. He was sweating harder than ever and pain in his arm and ankles thrummed away insistently with each beat of his heart, now accompanied by a headache and pressure behind his eyes. Before him stood a man in white holding a bucket, but the moment that he began to raise his head, the man gasped.

“ _Brother! He’s awake already!”_

The voice was youthful, an initiate.

_“Then use it already!”_   
_“Y-Yes!”_

The Wolf watched the youth as if in slow motion as he took several half-running steps towards him and threw the contents of the bucket over the temple’s captive; it contained freezing cold water that made the shinobi groan as it smacked into his sore body. Disappointment spread across the initiate’s face as it became quite clear to him that the accumulated filth on the Wolf’s body wasn’t shifting any time soon. The Great Serpent’s dedicants were far more accustomed to washing bodies that were already clean, soft and shapely— this scraggly morsel was far from their usual fare.

“ _How much should we remove?”  
“Take off as much as you can.”_

What were they talking about? The Wolf shivered despite himself and only then did he realise just how bare he was. They’d left him in nothing but bandages and his grimy fundoshi, out of either disgust or simply to use it as some manner of handle for hauling his dead weight around. The initiate moved towards him and reached into his robe, before drawing an all-too-familiar blade.

 _That’s…!_ The blade that crippled him sat in the hands of his new tormentor, who set into a scowl as he approached. With lines carved into his face, he appeared far more intimidating, especially with knowledge of his deeds. When he crouched down and touched one of the Wolf’s feet, he tried to jerk away but found himself unable to— his thigh twitched, but refused to move. All he mustered in its place was a ghoulish groan that made the youth frown ever deeper as he lined up the edge of his blade with the exposed section of the Wolf’s foot and ran it across his skin.

A line of filth came up on the edge, of dead skin and oils, of dirt and hair in a grimy paste. The young priest shook his head in disgust and took a rough hold of the Wolf’s ankle, only to be rewarded with a blood-curdling scream that made everybody in the room flinch. Even he could not deal with fingers in his wound, pressing bindings into bone and scraping cloth along its edges. With knife in hand, the Initiate began to run it up his captive’s juddering leg, shaving him clean. A practised flick cleaned the blade off when it grew heavy with run-off and hair and there was no choice for the shinobi but to suffer the indignity.

Ankle to knee on one side. Ankle to knee on the other.

As he worked his way up the Wolf’s thigh, all eyes in the room were on his nefarious deed. Carefully, he avoided the now-wet, stinking, stained fundoshi that held the shinobi’s genitals up in place and away from his muscles. The dirty cloth reeked of sweat and piss and the sad outline of his prick was detracted from by the wild tangle of pubic hair that sprouted from the sides and crept towards the dusting on the outside of his thighs. With a swallow, the Wolf cringed away from hushed mutterings that he _knew_ were about him.

He would endure with dignity.

… Or rather, that was what he told himself.

Anticipation hung heavy in the air as the initiate slid his blade under the twisted cloth at the Wolf’s side and raised it… until it sliced through the fibres and fell open, releasing his soft cock and cold-shrivelled balls.

Never had the Wolf felt so exposed in his life, even when he had been bare by choice. He scowled into the remains of his arm and turned his face away until a hand grabbed his jaw and forced it downwards— the Initiate had found his stride, gained some kind of sick confidence.

“ _Watch. Or do you want to be castrated as well, intruder?”_

Dark, glowing, hollow eyes stared into the lad’s for a few moments too long before turning downwards, at his work. The priest was forced to suppress a shudder that the Wolf could pick up through his fingers as he descended upon the thicket of black hair, then began to scrape away at it from the top in delicate swipes. Confident that he was not to be strangled or otherwise harmed, the Initiate grew bolder, his strokes longer, clearing more and more hair from pallid skin until he was pushing around a mire of muck and hair, edging ever closer towards the shinobi’s lolling prick, shrouded in foreskin. Breaths grew tighter as the Initiate came to realise the pressure he was under… and a less-than careful flick of his blade caught his thumb on the way back towards the patch of groin he worked on.

Blood welled from his cut and oozed against the Wolf’s untouched skin, so white, so unseen, unsullied for so long… only for a clumsy lad to finally stain him. Shards of hair appeared to home in on the open skin and he hissed as he was forced to suck a blade of black from his wound. Only then did he realise that the shinobi watched, as stony and unmoving as ever.

Terror took over as he fell back onto his hands, into the water that ran with the hobbled man’s bodily filth and hair, grimy and vile, as the youth stared back into his killer’s eyes.

A weight pressed onto his shoulders… and he couldn’t breathe.

Something swamped his soul, an existential dread, a shapeless, formless _threat_ that stained him black. A killing intent seeped into him, forced in by the shinobi’s dead, empty gaze. A mark of death.

  
Another monk took the place of the first, but this time he kept his eyes down turned as the Initiate babbled with incoherent fear. They solved their quandary by blindfolding the Wolf as his body was shaved down to bare, smooth, cleansed newness and he was hauled to his ruined feet. The moment that weight came down on his broken bones, the Wolf seethed with pain and had no choice other than to stumble where he was dragged, obedient and blind, bearing the punishment for his own distribution of justice.

The men supporting him did not tell him when there was a step; they merely walked him into it and scoffed when he hissed and suppressed a bellow, until they deposited him into a hewn bath none-too-carefully… and held his head beneath the water to ensure that his greasy, grotty hair was soaked all the way through before allowing him to struggle to the surface and gasp for air. His body felt so bizarre, the first time in his life that his skin could glide against itself in such a way, as if ready to be wrapped in scales. Strong hands held him still as rough brushes scrubbed him red raw and soap scraped across his scalp, cleaning his neglected hair.

It reminded him of bathing with the Owl, of being reprimanded for allowing himself to smell so poor as to alert people to his presence. Yet even his heavy hand was nothing compared to the comb tearing at knots, yanking his head back and forth until it tore out from the roots and came away. There was an oil in the water that stung at his existing scrapes and cuts, but seared his ankles until the only thing that he could focus on was trying to project himself away from his body, separate mind and matter for a moment of respite, some kind of peace.

Beneath all the grime, Wolf was a beautiful man. The lines of his muscles were elegant, so cooled and strong that he exuded a capability that one would expect of a man twice his size. Something bred them big in Ashina and the surrounding areas— a man’s strength was linked to his size and without the stature of a god, one could not hope to bear any kind of power. This scrawny, one-armed Wolf, however, was more than able.

That was why the Great Serpent would smile upon their people for their offering.


	3. Dressed

When Wolf was sufficiently scoured, the monks dragged him from his bath and re-bound his sopping ankle bandages, now waterlogged and useless. Caught between making their job more difficult and his own exhaustion, he sagged in their grip and struggled to stay upright— he staggered, wet and naked, shivering and bare, dizzy and sick until he was dropped in front of a spindly-limbed woman who looked over his wounds as if handling a diseased animal. He could not see much of her face save a slit in her surgeon’s hood exposing bloodshot eyes and thick lashes, her eyebrows shaved away and skin powdered.

 _“Thank you, sister, we—”_  
“I should be praying. And you bring me away to tend to this dog?”  
“Sister, we—”  
“Tch… a shinobi…”

She pulled his bandages tighter than they should have gone, just to make Wolf groan.

_“If you threaten the sanctity of our ritual, intruder… your soul will never know peace.”_

Wolf’s head hung, hair dripping down his tight form.

_“There. He’ll live long enough.”_

The monks nodded to the surgeon, who washed her hands of blood and untied her stained gown. Beneath laid several layers of pristine white, crisp and beautiful as the snow that beat down outside of their temple and when she removed her hood, she was made up for… her wedding?

 _They’re sacrificing a physician… are these people mad?_ Wolf thought to himself, as he kept his eyes low lest his eyes be covered again. He shivered, but there was little time to ponder on the doctor’s fate. It was his own that he had to worry about, as murky as his thoughts were, but he did not have a moment to them; the monks dragged him back to his numb feet and while the surgeon went one way, they went another. She muttered to herself as they left, a prayer of some sorts.

_God of Earth, God of Earth…  
God of Earth, God of Earth…_

What was it? That snake was an impossible creature, but could it truly have been a god? Wolf swallowed, but the motion quickly made him feel sick.

  
Waiting for him in the next chamber was exactly what he’d dreaded— kimono stands lined the walls, racks and racks of white hanging in warm candle light like apparitions. A beaten tatami sat in the middle of the room and the monks deposited him on it, then busied themselves with pulling robe after robe down.

This was a sick joke. It had to be.

Wolf didn’t fight against them as they tied a cloth around his head, then bundled him into the base layer, manhandling his legs up and down as if he were some kind of invalid… but remembering that he was one seemed so strange and far-away. The moment his feet were placed back down on white cloth, red began to seep through; one of the monks sighed in irritation, but there was no more they could do. It took the stronger man to lift him to get Wolf’s backside up high enough to tuck his robes beneath him and the shame of being dressed by strangers burned away at the shinobi’s mind and on his cheeks as he winced away.

The monk who dressed him showed a shocking level of care for his work. His hands smoothed across Wolf’s clothing to ensure there were no wrinkles, that no seam was out of place and that the lines fell symmetrically in front of the hard lines of his masculine neck, highlighted by scars and his Adam's apple. Yet all the same, he was transformed in heavy silence save shifting cloth, resigned to his fate as a heavy obi took both men to wrap around him.

This was his shroud. His funeral garb. He stared down at his hands, scarred with nicks and cuts with a dull, dead realisation as the meticulous monk spread a cloth over his shoulders, wrung Wolf’s hair out and began to comb it out with pomade. He rocked back and forth as the monk huffed, hummed and haw-ed his way through sculpting the shinobi’s long, lank hair into a wedding style and pinned it into place tightly as he could with silver ornaments until the man on the tatami was so far divorced from the scraggly shinobi they’d captured.

Of all the strange people he’d been captured by, these were surely the most hospitable.

So much so that their hospitality tarnished their robes in great, spreading pools of blood that swamped its way through myriad layers of stiff cloth.

Perhaps it is a sign, Wolf thought humourlessly to himself. He would not have his opportunity for his second kimono, after all.

_“All that hard work for nothing, huh?”_

The monk who did all the hefting muttered to the one who worked away with a fine needle and white thread on the last details of Wolf’s outermost layer. They left him to lay on the tatami, convinced of his harmlessness.

 _“Mm. I would ask them to mind his hair, but… you know what they’re like_.”

Lifting monk scoffed and they fell back into silence as the other worked. When he was finally done, they approached Wolf and pulled him up into a sitting position to work his arm and stump into the outer robe; Wolf looked down at it and caught sight of intricate embroidery, of snakes twisting and coiling and winding across the heaviest layer yet. It was beautiful. If every sacrifice was given in such a fine piece of work… didn’t it hurt to feed it to a beast? To lose every one? Or perhaps it was an act of worship in itself. Wolf was curious, but too tired to speak— only moan when the monks pulled him to his feet once more and dragged him along.

The train of Wolf’s shiromuku trailed through his bloody tracks, smearing it across the stones as if seeking to scent him all the way through the cliff-temple’s halls. He tuned himself out again, left his body, stopped thinking… until the monks pushed open some heavy wooden doors and pulled the bleeding bride into a smoky chamber. Sickly sweet incense mingled with acrid gunpowder and when Wolf rose his head, the elderly high priest sat in front of an altar, with several other holy men around him.

All of them were naked.

Laboured breathing came from a white heap on the ground, a tangle of black hair pooled around it. A woman with her knees wide laid on her back in her shiromuku, a priest’s ass and legs sticking out of the bottom of her robes. The closer he got, the louder the sucking, smacking of lips and piggish grunting of a man absorbed in cunnilingus grew until Wolf was dumped next to the couple in a heap of useless limbs and sullied white cloth.

_“Very good work, young brothers. Come, partake in your work with us.”_

The high priest leered and rose, his pot belly half-obscuring his cock as he approached the wounded shinobi, a sick intent plastered across his now-sinister, deep-lined face.

Obedient as the Wolf himself, the initiate dropped to his knees behind Wolf, reached around him, seized his robes… and pulled open the solid lines he’d created, baring a shinobi’s scarred, ripped chest to hungry eyes. Wolf started to struggle then. He turned his shoulders away, but another monk, thick-bodied and naked, grabbed him by the immaculately-styled hair and yanked him forwards. The initiate’s hands slid down his smooth-shaved chest and found his nipples, then started to rub at them with the kind of knowledge that no monk should have been privy to, just as the other monk shoved his stinking cock against Wolf’s stubbled cheek. He stank of sweat and cunt, left to dry on his prick.

For the first time, the Wolf wished that he was dead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, friends!

They’d cleaned him in order to sully him.

 

Dressed him in order to tear him apart, so their hands could run down his body unfettered and play out a sick fantasy. There was no resisting, a hopeless seizure of thought from his mind and control from his hands, leaving the shinobi a lifeless fuckdoll. Deprived of resistance and cognition and any hope of ridding himself of their heavy gaze, Wolf submitted to their torment and indulged their perverse intentions with deep shame.

 

He knew how to do this, after all.

 

Wolf turned his head into the monk’s stubby cock and sucked it into his scoured, softened lips with confidence. The taste was foul. Loose foreskin peeled back with Wolf’s tongue and smeared filth along his tastebuds, while the lingering taste of pussy haunted him. He would rather have been between the woman’s legs— she sprawled next to him, makeup smeared and foundation sweated through, fucked side by side in their elaborate wedding best.

 

_This... is what they do to all of their sacrifices?_

 

How many had they said they had?

 

_Fifty... they’ve... despoiled fifty women here?_

 

They must have already had their way with the physician. He winced as rough hands grabbed his damp hair and ears and used them as anchors to fuck his face with, but his heart ached for the others who were less willing. Was it an honour or a punishment? His captors mentioned forty criminals put to death, had they been cut and humbled as he had? Mindlessly, he swallowed and sucked as he had been taught to so many years ago, so that he could serve with pleasure or resist those who would use their sexuality as a terror, but the woman next to him was _afraid_ , he could smell it—

 

The high priest grabbed Wolf’s nose and yanked him off of the monk’s cock with a vulgar pop of his mouth, then pulled him in to pleasure him instead. Wolf winced as a hand on the back of his head forced him straight down the priest’s wrinkled old prick and nestled the head in the back of his throat, as his nose dug into the sour, sweaty fold between belly and cock. Obediently, he gulped down the intruding cock and let the high priest grab his already-sore ears for handles as he started to properly fuck his face.

 

He could hear them on the woman. The squelch of a cock in a cunt forced wet and wails of pain. A slap. Sobs. Another slap. She tried to sound as if she were enjoying herself, shaping her cries into performed mewls as the monk grunted away like an animal.

 

A rough hand struck his face.

_“Wake up, intruder!”_

 

Wolf snapped back, dimly glowing eyes rising to meet the High Priest’s as the disgusting head of his cock rubbed along the shinobi’s lips as if to gloss them with dick-filth.

 

“ _Roll him over, brothers,_ ” came his instruction. Wolf laid limp, his hair ruined now by too many possessive hands. Long strands of greying hair hung out of place and laid along his shoulders and when the monks who had cleaned and dressed him crouched down to turn him over, he flicked his eyes up for long enough to see a line pressed into his stylist’s face.

 

_Serves him right._

 

All that hard work for nothing.

 

Greedy hands began to pull at his bloody layers, peeling Wolf’s robes open until the High Priest hit skin and could fondle the Shinobi’s muscular ass— he laid there obediently, knowing that the last laugh was his.

 

“ _What in the...!?”_

 

Where the High Priest had expected a tight, virgin ass to torment, he found a ruined man-cunt instead. Wolf was loose and slack, his asshole swollen and punched-in until it called his continence into question— the Priest looked upon him with horror and fascination and pulled the Shinobi’s useless leg up for a better look. A solitary finger poked and prodded at the already sweating flesh and rubbed at its soft, pliable bulk before spreading it with a second finger. No resistance. Wolf forced his hole slack and allowed the Priest to delve into his guts, fingers proving to be nothing whatsoever. Just what he wanted.

 

All it meant was that the High Priest could fuck him easily, so he indulged. With one of Wolf’s legs slung over his shoulder, the old man twisted his hips to get his belly around his captive and dug his dirty little cock into Wolf’s smashed up ass-cunt, then pounded away at him until the vision of the woman next to them faded away from glowing eyes.

 

 

_“There are times that you may need to lay with another man. Do you understand?”_

_“Yes, Father.”_

_“They may be attracted to your size. Small, like a woman. This only makes you more deadly to them. Use this to your advantage, Wolf. Let them manipulate your flesh, but know that your mind will always be yours. This is the way of the Shinobi.”_

_“Yes, Father.”_

_“Submit to them in body, but not in spirit. Wait for your prey, as you are named to.”_

 

Wolf lost count of the amount of men who used him. His mind was a blank, useless slate that registered nothing amongst a sensory overload that left him half-hard and leaking semen into his finery, his hair pulled out of place and makeup smeared across his face. When the final monk had his fill, they dropped him into a pool of cloth and cum, then drained their numbers away from the room until only Wolf and the woman laid together in overwhelming silence.

 

Her soft sobs drew him out from his stupor.

 

Laid in place, he tilted his head towards her and stared. She was young and pretty, skin darkened a shade or two from working in the fields— a peasant, a farmer’s daughter. The monks had been unable to do anything with her hair, as short cropped as it was, so had shaped it with pomade... until now. It stuck out every way and she endeavoured to smooth it down again as she laid as she had been left as well. Exposed. Leaking. Disgraced.

 

 _“Why do you do this?”_ Wolf managed to croak out, his voice splintered.

 

The woman shook her head and scrubbed a sleeve across her eyes. She sniffed deeply and with her other hand, reached into her obi; as she drew it out, Wolf’s eyes narrowed.

 

A ritual dagger.

 

She rolled onto her side towards him and put a finger to her mouth to silence him, looked up to the door to check for the monks’ return, then reached into Wolf’s obi and stashed the dagger away. Her hands rested on his chest for a moment, her eyes full of tears and regrets, before she took another shuddering lungful of breath and laid back down. The woman reassumed her position and looked away from Wolf, but he knew everything that she wanted.

 

They would hurt in turn.


End file.
